Chapter 2

Chloe Vance POV

I leaked a piece of news to the public:

Ms. Vance is engaged, with the wedding expected within the year.

My fiancé had been studying abroad for years, and the two of us had never even met.

It was just a fake engagement.

But this engagement was precisely what I needed to completely shut down Ashton Foster's lingering advances.

Once the news broke, the entire social circle erupted.

Word had it that Ashton heard the news during a regular meeting, his fountain pen gouging a heavy line of ink across the document.

Leaning back against his chair, he sneered, "She's just throwing a tantrum. In two days, she'll come crawling back on her own."

His assistant stood aside with his head down, not daring to utter a word.

When Mother learned of the news, she didn't object; instead, she stepped forward and shouldered all the pressure.

Mother publicly declared that she had arranged the engagement herself, shielding me from all the pressure the Foster family exerted.

That evening, I went to Mother's room to discuss a strategy, wanting to handle things myself.

Mother was unwrapping a sheet mask in front of the vanity. She raised a hand to stop me. "You're my daughter. If trouble comes, I carry it. Let the Fosters say what they want. At worst, they'll call me a senile old fool."

"Mom, the Foster family's methods are vicious."

"I'm not afraid," Mother said, gently patting her cheeks, her tone calm. "Your dad passed away early. This hotel is something he and I built brick by brick. No one is taking it from us. Do whatever you want to do; I've got your back."

Standing by the doorway, my throat tightened.

The next afternoon, Mother went down to the basement level kitchen cold storage to inspect ingredients.

It coincided right with the chefs' shift change, leaving the passageway completely deserted.

Just as Mother reached the steps in front of the cold storage door, her foot slipped, and she tumbled down the stairs.

A thin layer of cooking oil had been smeared on the floor, blending seamlessly with the tiles, almost impossible to spot with the naked eye.

Mother's head slammed hard against the edge of a step. She fell unconscious instantly, blood pooling across the concrete floor.

Natalie Scott's assistant had timed the shift change to sneak in and do this.

In my office, I received a call from the front desk. The voice on the other end was trembling, saying Mother had cracked her head open in the kitchen and an ambulance had already been called.

I dropped my pen, grabbed my car keys, and bolted downstairs.

The elevators were stuck on the upper floors, so I sprinted down the emergency stairwell all the way to the basement. When I reached the kitchen, paramedics were loading Mother onto a stretcher.

Her eyes were closed tight, the blood on her forehead matting her hair into clumps.

When I arrived outside the emergency room, Ashton Foster followed behind.

Dressed in a sharp suit, he stood in the hallway, impeccably composed.

I grabbed his sleeve. "My mom is in there fighting for her life! Someone poured oil on the kitchen floor—"

"Natalie has been in my office all day," Ashton interrupted, pulling his arm back. "It couldn't have been her. Stop pinning everything on her head."

I froze on the spot.

Looking at the face I had gazed at for years, my fingers curled tight, nails digging deep into my palms.

"My mother's life is hanging by a thread in there," my voice trembled. "And the very first thing out of your mouth is clearing Natalie Scott's name?"

Ashton frowned slightly. "I'm just stating facts."

I raised my hand and slapped him across the face.

Ashton hadn't expected me to strike him. His head whipped to the side, and then, humiliated and furious, he shoved me back hard.

I stumbled and slammed into the concrete corner behind me, the back of my head striking the hard wall. Blood trickled down my neck.

A nurse in the hallway started forward to help, but her colleague held her back.

Ashton took out a handkerchief, wiped the corner of his mouth, and didn't even spare a glance at me on the floor.

"I'm going to the ward to see Natalie. She was frightened earlier."

He turned and walked away, the clicks of his leather shoes against the tiles fading into the distance.

Leaning against the icy base of the wall, I raised a hand to cover the back of my head, my palm slick with warm blood.

Mother's condition was critical, suffering an intracranial hemorrhage. She urgently needed to be transferred to the best private neurological hospital.

That hospital was controlled by Foster Group, home to the finest neurosurgeons in the city.

Bandages wrapped tightly around my forehead, I pushed open the doors to Ashton Foster's office.

"Ashton, have the hospital accept my mother's transfer."